


Pretend

by neverweremine



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 18:58:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20644073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverweremine/pseuds/neverweremine
Summary: Ralph has a hard time adjusting after the revolution.





	Pretend

Ralph is awake when the sun comes up. Ralph is always awake when the sun comes up because Ralph never sleeps. Never goes into standby mode. Hasn’t gone into standby mode since that cruel day when a blowtorch scorched the side of his face and the world became so bright and so dark all at once - and so, when the sun comes up it means nothing to him because he has always been awake.

But the sun is coming up which means he can _pretend_ to wake up; which means he can stop sitting on the bed picking at tattered bed covers stretched too thin; which means he can stop staring at the clean, white walls that urge him to go into the kitchen and carve it all until the emptiness in his chest cavity goes away - because he’s not made of tissue and cells and organs - because he will always be a little empty on the inside, and that’s okay. That’s what Lucy says. That’s what Kara says. 

It’ll all be okay.

Birds chirp and outside the sun rises further. Ralph checks his internal clock. 6:19 A.M. Is that waking up early or late?

Does it matter? Ralph doesn’t sleep anyway.

When he exits his room, all the other doors around him are closed and silent. That’s not a surprise. Ralph is often the first one to leave his room in the morning. What is a surprise is what greets him in the living room. Someone has left their room before him and they - _he_(?) - looks solemn.

Except, Jerry is not supposed to look solemn. Jerry is meant to be happy, and cheerful, and a strange sort of ecstatic that reminds Ralph of when everything’s going better than he hoped, right before something whisks in and snatches it all away - and Jerry is not meant to be solemn; forehead pressed against the window as he stares at the backyard; as the sun highlights the darkness in his eyes and the downturn of his lips. He’s not frowning - no, Jerry never frowns - but he’s not smiling either, and that is -

That is wrong.

Ralph doesn’t go into standby mode - hasn’t gone into standby mode since that cruel day - and so, when a door creaks open behind him and his internal clock reads a large 7:05 AM, Ralph doesn’t quite understand how 46 minutes has passed without his notice. Had he been staring at Jerry the whole time? He turns around to assess the noise first instead of the creeping paranoia that comes with lost time -- and it’s Luther, coming out of his bedroom. He nods at the lumbering giant in acknowledgment before turning back, but when he searches the window seat, Jerry is gone.

No, not gone. Solemn Jerry is gone but Jerry is still there - smiling at them as if without a care in the world.< 

“Morning, Luther. Morning, Ralph!”

“Morning, Jerry,” Luther rumbles next to him. “Have you been awake for long?”

“No, not really. Only a few minutes,” Jerry explains with a smile, but Jerry is lying. Ralph knows what ‘a few’ means. Jerry has been up for 46 minutes - maybe longer, because Ralph doesn’t remember hearing footsteps walk past his door, which means Jerry might’ve never gone into his bedroom - which means that’s a lot more than ‘a few’ - and maybe that’s all part of the pretend too. Pretend they need to go to sleep, pretend that everything is okay, pretend that they’re not waiting for the cops to bring them back to the snow, and the fences, and the long lines that become too short too fast. Pretend Jerry hasn’t been in the living room staring out the window with solemn eyes and flat lips all night.

Pretend.

<s>Father, mother, little girl.</s>

Birds chirp outside. Ralph smiles back and chirps, “Good morning,” and pretends.

* * *

Lucy says that in times of undue stress it is good to focus on the bright side of things. That when anxiety creeps on him and his urge to run or fight overwhelms him in what would be an otherwise normal situation, he should count back from ten and locate the good things around him. Ground himself in it. 

“But what is normal?” He asks. Is normal hiding under staircases when humans enter the one place you call home? Is normal the basic routine established under glass-covered rooftops? Is normal here and now: sitting on a hard-backed plastic chair in the middle of her office where the buzzing lights flicker every few seconds, while outside hundreds of androids who call the abandoned church “home” mill about, aimless?

“‘Normal’ changes and shifts and transforms over time.” She tells him, “For you, normal is a five-person household on the edge of Detroit. For me, it is here, helping androids with the programming and knowledge installed in me. For both of us, none of this would have been normal five months ago.”

“Let’s start small, shall we? I want you to focus on the good things in life, the things that make you comfortable, and I want you to focus on it. Verbalize it. Say aloud, ‘This makes me comfortable,’ whether it’s a type of music, or a hobby, or something smaller. That way, when you are stressed, you can recognize it and focus on it instead of whatever is making you stressed; normal situation or not.”

He nods because sometimes the therapy sessions go faster if he nods, and she continues, “Don’t be afraid to find comfort in people as well as things, and don’t be afraid to tell them what you like about them either. Sometimes compliments can go a long way. Do you understand?”

She smiles at him and he thinks he understands. A little. He remembers the time Kara complimented him on being brave; on saving the little one. He remembers the rapid burst of his thirium pump and the rush of his blood. Compliments. Comfort. The little things.

He can do that.

* * *

“I like gardening,” Ralph says. “I like succulents and gardenias and I like wearing my new gloves.”

Alice lifts her head from where she’s digging a hole in the ground to plant new daffodil seeds and eyes him with a familiar expression: brows furrowing, lips curling back, eyes narrowed. Ralph does what Lucy advised: focus on the good things instead of the way the little girl looks at him like she still doesn’t quite know why he’s around. He trains his eyes on the ground, on the way the soil crumbles in his hands, the light that shines on his face, and the way Kara’s face soften as she says, “That’s great, Ralph. I’m glad you’re liking this.”

“Thank you, Kara.” He hesitates. He should compliment her, shouldn’t he? It seems like the perfect time. The garden is quiet and Alice has gone back to planting seeds, and there’s something building in the back of his throat - but what should he say? He could compliment her eyes, her hair, the softness of her voice; all things he finds comfort in, but a lot of other AX400 androids have the same eyes and - even though it’s cut short - the same hair, and the same voice. How does he compliment her without complimenting every other AX400 out there?

The answer is: he can’t. Not now. So he returns to the soil and the gardenia seeds in his hands and resumes doing what he likes.

* * *

“I like this,” Ralph whispers. Luther sends him a curious glance, and though he doesn’t ask it aloud, the message still comes across. Ralph shrugs because he doesn’t know what, specifically, he likes about the scenario. The room is dark, the electricity having been blown out with the storm, but there are candles lit around the room and the coffee table has been pushed aside for a fort made out of blankets. Behind them, Alice is giggling while they ‘stand guard’ and it’s…nice.

It’s pretend. It’s pretend but it’s not the bad sort of pretend; the kind where they pretend everything is okay and that they all fall asleep at night without reliving the memories that can never be erased. This is the good sort of pretend - make-believe, Jerry had said as he came into the living room with a tower of blankets and pillows. Thunder crashes outside but Ralph doesn’t jump because Kara is laughing and Alice is giggling and Luther is next to him, helping him ‘stand guard’. All anxiety or panic drowns in the rain and laughter.

“I like this too,” Luther admits as the candles flickers and the light grows bigger.

Stronger.

Warmer.

* * *

The world is dark but Alice is awake. Alice shouldn’t be awake. Alice has programming that allows her to feel the wisps of drowsiness, the pangs of hunger, the minute differences between hot and cold. It is 2:29 AM and Ralph may not have been installed with human caretaking programs, but even he knows little ones should not be up this late. He should usher her to bed like a good father.

(But he’s not her father, is he? It’s not healthy to play pretend.)

“I don’t like the dark,” she says, which would explain the light in the kitchen. Ralph lowers the arm with the knife and counts back from ten all slow, like the humans do. When he opens his eyes, she’s still sitting there, staring at him with the same look she always wears around him. Distrust. Suspicion. Weariness.

Resignation.

“Do you like knives?” She asks. Ralph blinks and stares at the knife in his hand. The edge of it and the bump of its hilt is familiar. Too familiar.

“Ralph…finds comfort in something to protect himself with, but Ralph does not find comfort in finding comfort in it.” He looks Alice in the eyes. He wills her to understand what he’s saying, even though he’s not quite sure what’s coming out of his mouth is understandable. “No,” he repeats, “Ralph does not find comfort in finding comfort in it.”

She nods slowly as if getting the gist of it, if not every little detail, before returning to stare at the kitchen wall. He hesitates. The objective to deal with the light in the kitchen has been dealt with, but now what? The little girl doesn’t seem keen on moving. Should he leave her be? Should he call Kara? Should he join her at the kitchen table?

She looks sad…

“What does the little girl find comfort in?”

“Huh?”

“Ralph likes gardening and new gloves and gardenias-“

“- and succulents,” Alice finishes with an eye roll. “I know.”

“Well, Ralph told the little girl what he likes, and the little girl told him what she doesn’t like, so now it’s time to tell Ralph what she really likes.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

But Ralph is stubborn when he sets his mind to it. He draws up a chair - the wooden legs scraping against the tiled floor - and leans in. He can wait. He can wait all night. It’s better than waiting alone in his room. Alice leans back and huffs, but she’s a child and children aren’t very patient – Ralph knows that much - and so he waits, and he waits, and he waits-

“Fine.” Alice says with another roll of her eyes, “I like Kara.”

“That’s not fair. Everyone likes Kara! You have to tell Ralph something not so obvious.”

“So? You’re a gardening android who likes to garden. That’s pretty obvious.”

“I told you about the knife!”

“Well-“ Alice’s nose scrunches up as a frown pulls at her lips, “Fine. I like…”

She pauses for a long time. A little too long. Ralph stares at the clean kitchen walls, and his hand tightens on the knife, and they’re sat at the dining room table and he was yelling. Why did he yell? He was so mean and angry and bad. Ralph is always bad-

“I had a toy I liked…” Alice says softly; as if luring him away from the bad thoughts. The downward spiral, as Lucy would call it. “My da-” she pauses, “My owner bought this toy for me when Kara was sent in for repairs. It was one of his good days and I…”

She sniffles, and for a moment Ralph worries that he’d have to comfort her, but she continues on, words tripping over themselves: “It was a stuffed fox and it had cute little eyes and floppy limbs, and I didn't have time to take it when we ran. I only had it for a week but I liked it.”

Ralph nods. The kitchen falls silent. A few minutes later, Alice's head starts to droop, her forehead hovering inches over scratched wood before jerking back up again. For a moment, Ralph imagines her falling asleep, imagines himself picking her up and carrying her to bed, imagines tucking her in like a real father would – but that’s imagination. What happens in reality is: she picks herself up, tells him she should go to sleep with eyes that tell him she will do anything but, and shuffles to bed on her own. And Ralph is left there. In the kitchen. Alone.

(Again.)

It’s better this way, Ralph thinks, because the knife is still in his hand and everyone knows you don’t pick up little girls with a knife in your hand.

It takes him a long time to let go.

* * *

“Ralph likes it when you’re not happy.”

Jerry’s smile flickers for a second, and if he still had his LED, Ralph is sure it would be turning yellow. “Thanks?” He says, the smile still there, but less, somehow. Ralph frowns. If he cannot compliment Jerry, the easiest going person in the house, then how will he ever learn how to compliment someone? His hands curl into fists. He has to try again.

“What Ralph is trying to say is…he likes it when – Ralph likes it when Jerry doesn’t have to pretend to be happy.”

The smile fades. Ralph does not know if this is genuine sadness or if this is Jerry not pretending anymore. Maybe Ralph made a mistake.

“Lucy says pretending isn’t healthy. That it’s nice to focus on the good in life, but if you focus too much it can hurt. Ralph doesn’t want Jerry to be hurt. Jerry is nice. Ralph saw Jerry once in the living room and he didn’t look happy and that’s okay! Not being happy is okay! Ralph also swears he wasn’t spying. He opened his door because it was morning and morning is when you wake up and-“

Ralph pauses as Jerry catches him by his twitching hands. The edges of his smiles are tilted upward but the fine edges of his brow tilt downwards. “It’s okay Ralph,” Jerry soothes in that calm voice of his, “I think I understand. I like you too.”

Ralph blinks and then blinks again. He nods, because Jerry is not wrong. He likes Jerry, whether happy or solemn. Yes, it’s simple. Maybe it has always been that simple.

* * *

“Ralph has learned how to compliment people!” He shouts as he bursts into Lucy’s office. Lucy doesn't turn her head from her desk, one thin eyebrow raised in a silent, _Go on_. He does so without trouble, pacing up and down the office with small hops interspersed unevenly in between.

“Ralph complimented Jerry and Jerry complimented back!”

“Oh? How did it go? What did you say?”

He stops in front of where Lucy sits, his chest puffed and shoulders thrown back, “Ralph said Ralph liked it when Jerry wasn’t happy!”

Lucy’s lowered eyebrow raises to meet the other, “Is that so? And how did Jerry react?”

“He said he likes Ralph too!”

"Ralph,” she says, in that delicate tone of hers that means Ralph’s done something wrong or strange again. Instantly, he stops hopping on his feet. “While I’ll call this a victory, I’d be careful to choose your words next time. I know you had the best intentions but the way you worded your compliment-“

“But Jerry said he liked Ralph!” He blurts out. Jerry wouldn’t lie to Ralph, right? No, Jerry would never lie to Ralph. He is too good. But Kara is good too. And Kara has lied to Ralph before because Ralph was being mean. Was Ralph being mean? Ralph didn’t mean to be mean. No, no, no. It was so simple.

(Why couldn’t it stay so simple?)

“Ralph,” she says in that calm voice. Always so calm even though she’s as broken as Ralph. How come she gets to be calm? Why can’t Ralph be calm instead of this drowning balance scale of too little highs and too high lows, “What’s the opposite of happy?” she says, calmly.

“Sad.” He bites out.

“If you liked it when he wasn’t happy, then when he wasn’t happy-“

She pauses, waiting for him to finish her thought. He does, albeit with great reluctance.

“Ralph didn’t mean it like that.” His fist clenches, “Ralph-"

She leans forward, her face still so serene even with wires dangling down from the back of her head, “I know, Ralph, that you had the best of intentions, I’m just advising for the future that you consider your words closer before speaking.”

“It’s not easy," he mutters. “It’s not easy.”

“No,” she says, “it’s never easy. That just means we have to keep trying.”

* * *

“Ralph, why are you in the bathtub and why is the bathtub filled with ice?”

“It is hot." This is true. It is 95 degrees Fahrenheit outside. That is hot by human standards.

“It is, but I think there are better ways to cool off than sitting in the bathtub for two hours.”

Ralph hums in acknowledgment and slides over, bits of ice crunching under his weight and spilling over the sides to fill the place he vacated. He pats the spot next to him in the bath, “If Kara wishes, she can join too. The cold helps with the overheating processors.”

“You’re still clothed.”

“Does Kara wish for Ralph to-“

“No,” she says with a shake of her head. “Keep your clothes on.”

She goes for the door but pauses before the handle. Softly, she asks, “You know you can’t avoid standby mode forever, right?”

He sinks deep into the half-melted cubes. “Ralph doesn’t know what Kara’s talking about.”

“This," she gestures to the ice cubes on the floor, the half a dozen ice cube trays stacked on the sink counter. “Ralph, I’ve seen you this morning. You were lagging a full ten seconds more than optimal. If you had gone into standby mode for a couple of hours, you would’ve been fine.”

“But now Ralph is better than fine! He’s not overheating at all! So it doesn’t matter!”

She walks to the bath and perches her butt on the rim of the tub. Her lips are flat. He can't look away. She asks, “When’s the last time you slept?”

_a blowtorch scorched the side of his face-_

"I forget."

* * *

Ralph is not meant to sew. He is meant to garden. He is not meant for making toys. He is meant to grow.

And growing means stepping out of your comfort zone – or, at least, that’s what Lucy says - and so Ralph steps out of his comfort zone but only a little bit. He thumbs through the worn instruction manual on his bed and tries to fill out the stuffing right, but little puffs of it keep dropping to his feet.

“Get in." He tells the stuffing, but it isn’t cooperating. “Get in!” He tells it again as he pushes a little more forcefully. It goes in but the results are uneven and lumpy. A little massage should straighten it out, shouldn’t it? He punches the stuffing around but it never seems right. He punches harder. Faster. Harder. It isn’t until an ominous rip fills the air does he realize he’s done it again. He’s messed up again. Is still messing up even now – and he screams, throwing the dumb, fake toy with the dumb, fake insides and the dumb, uneven stitches at the wall. He grabs the knife under the pillow and the blank, white walls surrounding him, and he-

_“Ralph, you deserve a chance too.”_

And he-

_“This house looks perfect, doesn’t it? I think this might be the cleanest house we’ve been in. Isn’t that right, Alice?”_

And he-

_“But what if something bad happens? What if something goes wrong?”_

And he-

_“Sometimes we find ourselves in cycles of anger and hatred, and the only way to prevent ourselves from continuing the cycle is recognizing the signs of our oncoming anger and not giving into it.”_

And he-

** _“EAT!”_ **

And he places the knife back under his pillow and stares at the room he’s been given – the home that he’s been given, and the gift that he swears he’ll get right this time.

“One day,” he promises, even as his cheek itches and his fingers twitch and his throat constricts. “One day," he says aloud. The words bolster as much as they blister.

_One day, I’ll get it right._


End file.
